Friday 13th April 2018
Today's famously unlucky date started out on form. A quick look out of the hotel window and the mountains had disappeared into the dampness. This was to have been my last mini adventure, heading home via Llanberis at the foot of Snowdon - maybe even with a trek to the top of the highest peak itself, time allowing? I didn't much fancy attempting it whilst stuck in a rain cloud though. Lots of wet, and no view. Never one for the 'I don't let the weather stop me having fun' mindset (especially in North Wales), I took a rain check on that one.
So over my breakfast at The Woodlands Hotel I chatted with landlord Nick about my options for getting home. My first instinct was to hug the north coast on the fast moving dual carriageway, maybe taking in the famous Menai Suspension Bridge (including that train station with the longest place name in the UK just over the other side in Anglesey) and maybe even a stop at Llandudno, the location of that blissful Easter family holiday three years ago.
The voice of reason though, Nick reminded me that the road (A55) was essentially a motorway to/from Ireland, and could well be packed with lorries fresh off the cargo ships and ferries. Not a lot of fun in the rain either. He suggested going via Bala Lake, which would take me in a perfect line due East, straight to my front door. I would even pass Llangollen, a favourite place for day trips in our house due to it being just over an hour away.
I agreed it was a good plan. The usual rigmarole of getting packed up took me a good hour after brekkers, then it was a fond farewell to Nick, Nerys and family. Despite the circumstances of their recent bereavement, there was still a most welcoming atmosphere to the place that would mean I'd book up with them again like a shot, should I ever return to the area.
I had a different feeling hitting the road today. There was less of that tense/excited quality that I'd experienced on previous days. It was more of a combo of sadness that the experience was over, but relief that I was on my way home. It comes at the end of most holidays I suppose.
There wasn't a lot to report for most of the somewhat soggy journey back. The straight, flat Llŷn roads changed into wider, hillier ones as I approached Snowdonia. There were none of the imagined vertiginous snaking lanes that I'd feared traversing in the rain though, it was all very comfortable. I had the sense that there must have been massively impressive mountains all around me but I could see nothing of them. I was coming out of The National Park before I knew it, down from the as yet consistently drizzly mist into outright rain as I caught glimpses of that favourite haunt of outward bound weekends - Bala Lake.
It didn't seem to be very long after this that I was approaching the pretty Deeside location of Llangollen, and the magnificent sight and sound of one of its steam trains, racing me into town along the valley below. I would have loved to take a picture but even if I found a safe stopping point it would have been gone by the time I got my camera out.
Although it meant a slight detour north, I knew that I just had to make one last stop in Wales - The Ponderosa Cafe, up on the Horseshoe Pass a few miles outside the town. This is a legendary biking location which I had visited a few times before, but only once by scooter. The pass itself is very spectacular, with a decidedly twisty Alpine feel as you ascend up the Llantysilio Mountains onto a sort of windswept plateux.
The Horseshoe can get quite scary in places if you think about it too much, or try and take your eyes off the road to admire the view. At the very summit is The Ponderosa, which today was just underneath the clouds.
I went in to wet my whistle. The cafe itself is great value given the location and normally I'd have been all over something greasy and good to eat but I still had The Woodlands Fry floating about. I unstrapped the smaller of the two bags (which held all the technology) whilst a rather cheeky crow watched me from atop the signpost. You can just see it in the photo above - but here it is up close :
Whilst sitting looking out of the window supping an OJ feeling the ever nearer presence of Home, instinctively, somewhere in my torso, I started to reflect and conclude a little on the trip as a whole. Here are some of the things, for better or worse, that went through my mind.
Good Points
I had...
- seen some truly beautiful and completely new places
- spent some quality time with friends and family
- spent lots of quality time on my own
- made the wise decision to enjoy three rest days
- been very lucky with my hotels, and the people that ran them - despite they themselves having had some awful luck recently
- remained dry and warm throughout even the longest ride
- lived with very restricted luggage for a week under perfectly civilised conditions
- not encountered a single technical problem with the scooter itself
- been very lucky with the weather on the whole - it could have been so much colder (7 degrees when I write this, two weeks later)
- managed to tackle longer rides and faster roads than I had experienced before, and coped. Even enjoyed quite a lot of them!
- been impressed by how well maintained and 'safe' most Welsh roads seem to be
- strengthened my relationship with the country that makes up half my blood
Not So Good Points :
- Guilt. I'd never been away from my family for this long before. There were times, off scoot, when I REALLY felt my wife and kids should be there with me to enjoy it too, especially in Tenby. They would have loved it there.
- The weather did spoil some plans eg Snowdon, St Davids. We had a heatwave of mid 20s and blue skies one week later (imagine The Ty Coch Inn with that... would it have been any more relaxing though, really? Would certainly have been a lot busier...)
- Luggage on the Vespa - whilst handling the travelling perfectly, it was a pain not being able to park up and wander off, leaving it all there securely (in The Shropshire Hills, for instance). If only everywhere had left luggage lockers!
- Satnav would sometimes lose the connection with the phone, prompting a pull over and a reboot of both.
- Mucky moments. From a pigeon depositing it from a tree, to tractors spilling it on the road, to squelching through a field of it.
If I'm honest with myself, I probably enjoyed the rest days more than the riding. I did settle in to a more relaxed mode on the long rides, eventually - but I still always had this sense of counting down miles and 'getting there', plus a sort of tension about other road users, and weather changes, and fuel etc. This meant I felt a good buzz of relief and achievement when I'd completed a stretch without incident, but as for any euphoria 'living in the moment of the ride', I think I'm a long way off that particular zen state being the default. However, I had an abundance of those 'be here now' moments when off the bike. Not sure what that says about my relationship to the Vespa. Is it essentially just a means to get places? Is this really the point of all vehicles? Is getting there really way less than half the fun after all?
Whatever, it certainly got me around on the cheap at least - less than £50 of unleaded over the whole week.
Anyway, experience pondered and thirst quenched, it was straight into the ace gift shop. This is an Aladdin's Cave of Welshness, and perfect for me to pick up some souvenirs as presents - some Welsh cakes, stuff with dragons on, a stick of Ponderosa rock - that sort of thing.
On my way out, the previously lonely Vespa was now flanked by a line of five Harley tourers. Perhaps the riding season was literally just starting, and I had picked my week perfectly from that point of view. I looked at my somewhat effeminate and underpowered machine next to these expensive macho beasts and felt a surge of pride. It had not just coped with what I had asked it to do, but handled it perfectly. I may have got to my destinations a fair bit more slowly than the 'proper' bikes would, but I arrived in so much more style.
I took some last pictures of my Wild Hog in the scenic car park before the final stretch.
The road from Llangollen to my front door was unremarkable and familiar. I felt quite emotional passing the 'Welcome To Shropshire' sign that signified the end of Wales. I had got used to seeing 'ARAF/SLOW' daubed on the tarmac along my travels, and would miss it. The road surface instantly became familiarly poor in quality, and potholes became an issue again. It was obvious that there had been some substantial rainfall recently too, as there were some flooded sections of road. It would have been very depressing if it weren't for the thought of being back with the family, not to mention their promise of steak & chips later.
Home. I pulled the Vespa up under the rain porch, in its usual resting place. I looked at the odometer, which I had remembered to reset about 2 or 3 miles into my trip, a week ago. Almost exactly 650 miles in all. That'll do nicely, bach.
Key in the door, I call out : 'DAD'S HOME..'
THE END
